Not Quite Over

There was magic all around him.  It was burning through him, his own, and Makoto’s, right next to his heart.  For 3/5 of a second, all there was in his world was light and noise, a distant scream, someone was saying his name, and Makoto . . .

Makoto . . .

And then it was over.  Only an empty shell of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen molecules remained of his greatest enemy.

And Makoto . . .

He found himself on his knees, and decided to collapse sideways.  He lay staring, watching the only person who meant anything at that moment stagger toward him and fall.  There was blood in places there shouldn’t have been, but it didn’t matter somehow.  Somebody was cheering.  And someone else was still saying his name.  Over and over.  Was it Dray?

They held onto each other with their eyes, their foreheads pressed together, their breathing perfectly matching, slowing, growing shakier . . . Two small tears dripped across Niah’s face.  Makoto couldn’t tell if they were from joy or sadness, and as he watched, he came to realization that such emotion would not suffer itself to be described by such a silly thing as a word.

Niah breathed.  And closed his eyes.  Makoto watched.  And closed his.

The world turned from a blue-green haze to white, and then back to color again.  He followed the sound of Niah’s laughter to the edge of the cliff.  The old woman, who was everything he was and everything he could and could not touch, turned to smile at him.  She nodded her greeting, and at her movement, Niah turned, and ran to him, and kissed him for the next three years.  Then he stopped to laugh, before kissing him again for another three years, because now nothing would ever be over, ever again.  They lay in flower-studded grass that tickled their skin, and the woman smiled, because she was the kiss.

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~ by followingsherlockholmes on October 18, 2012.

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